Page 84 of Babalon

“The AB has their eyes set on a specific inmate that has continued to deny the opportunity to join our ranks. Instead, he is a race traitor and spends time with the homies.”

“Why does that matter to you? There are plenty of men here that can fill his shoes.”

“Outside influences that you don’t understand.”

“You’d be surprised. Anyway, who is this inmate and what leverage do you have on him? Maybe I can assist.”

One and Two look over to Nate for a moment, having some sort of silent conversation. From the looks of it, they do not seem the type that can formulate a complete sentence, let alone make decisions.

“He has an infatuation with Officer Pierce, she’s leverage, when the time comes.”

“Interesting… tell me more.”

Even as a young boy who would watch her from afar, sneaking out after my mother passed to get a glimpse of Nadia, I never thought she would be capable of doing the things she has done in Darkwater. If I am to be an honest man, I will say that I expected more from her. She’s not the girl I thought I knew and that thought alone sends me into a blinding rage.

People don’t understand, that’s why I went silent during my therapy treatments—doctors refusing to hear what I had to say and choosing to ostracize me instead.

I needed her, longed for that dark-haired beauty, but she became something so different from what I ever anticipated.

A crying shame.

Concealing my contraband, I head back inside after leaving Nathan to pick up the pieces of his friend Pipsqueak. I don’t know if he ended up passing out or not, but the whimpers and muffled pleading went silent halfway through the details of Nathan's story.

All that I know, at this moment, with my nerves frayed and my frustrations spiking, is that I need to find my platinum-haired friend. Right after I find the prisonwhore.

Chapter twenty-five

Nadia

It’s been a long time since I have taken a few days off without being forced to do so, whether that be from incidents at work like Kace choking me out, or illness related. I usually find it difficult not having anything to do. The sensation is odd, to say the least, and by the time half of the day passes, I am ready to get back to the prison.

I don’t know if it’s just routine or if I need the stimulation of power to get me through the day. After changing therapists, and refusing to go altogether, work has become my coping mechanism even if my job is tedious, and at times, dangerous.

Tell me why, though, I find myself sitting in the living room of my childhood home. Looking down at my father as he snores like a freight train, sprawled out in his recliner like he just came off a three or four day high.

This place reeks, as if it hasn’t been cleaned with products in months; which it likely hasn’t since I moved out years ago. There is trash scattered everywhere from leftover take out containers,to cups half rotted through with mold crawling up the weekend paper siding.

The kitchen wasn’t any better when I came in through the back door. A stained trail of dirt carves a path along the linoleum, trash piled up to waist-height in a bin next to the counter that is beginning to connect with another pile that sits on the top. Dirty dishes resting in the sink crusted with food, soiled socks and pants randomly strewn across the floor out of the kitchen and down the hallway toward the bedrooms and bathroom.

This man is a slob.

It is obvious that I was the only one keeping things together in this house, and thank fuck I moved out when I could. If I would have stayed, I likely would have endured more physical abuse from my father and been tasked with tending to the man like he were my own child.

I’d choose a kid at this point, at least I’d have control. When you live a life similar to the one I had with someone else dictating everything you do, you crave the independence and vie for control. I can confidently say that while I still have issues, which I am working through on my own, I am a better person than I would have been if I stayed here.

Still, he snores. My upper lip curling in slight disgust when his right hand reaches down to adjust his junk. The clothes he is wearing look like they have been covered in automotive grease and not washed since he purchased them—wherever they came from.

Drawing a foot back, I kick the side of his chair, jostling him, sending him into one hell of a shock as he wakes up.

“What the fuck!” he snaps, abruptly trying to roll his ass out of the chair and onto his feet, huffing and puffing with the effort.

“Hi, Dad.”

“The fuck is your problem?”

“You, as always.”

He glares down at me, his fists clenching at his sides, at mypetulantbehavior—which is what he likes to say. Holding his glare, silence settles between the two of us, but I don’t budge until he finally speaks again. The rancid smell of stale cigarettes and lack of toothpaste wafting from his mouth.

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